You Pick Me Up

I’m wondering how in hell I am going to make it to the party.
That lousy car of mine screwed me again. Middle of Nowhere! Oh
well. Might as well get out the old thumb. I can see a car
coming from the distance.

VVVVRRRRROOOOOOMMMMM! “HEYYYYY! Not so Close!” Damn sports car
drivers think they own the …! (Screeech) What the hell?
Stopping? Backing up? Why would anybody stop for me anyway?
Hmmmmm. Nice. I always liked red sports cars and sporty women.
Be cool. This chick must’ve seen something she likes. (“Keep
your mouth shut, and let her lead,” I’m thinking to myself.) I
point helplessly at my heap of worthless junk, steaming its life

I give you my best look of helpless dismay. “Any chance of a
lift?” You are looking me over real carefully. I put my hands
on the open window ledge, so you can see they are clean. I don’t
want you to think I’m a drifter. “OK, hop in,” you say. You
don’t have to tell me twice! Far Out! You put on sunglasses,
jam into gear, and burn rubber. (“You must go through a lot of
tires,” I think.)

OHMYGOD! The wind is blowing so hard it is pushing your shirt
partly open. The top four or five buttons are undone, and I can
see part of your left breast. (“Don’t stare! Be cool. Don’t
let her know, or she will button up.)

Oh shit! You just slipped your right hand inside your shirt and
are rubbing under your tit! Your wrist is holding your shirt
open a little more, giving me a magnificent full view — nipple
and all. You keep moving your hand around, lifting your breast,
wiggling it. I’m gonna pass out! (“Be Cool! Act natural,
Stupid! Don’t blow it.”) I relax my eyes a little, so you don’t
think I’m a pop-eyed, jerkoff juvenile. I’m 40 years old, for
CHRISSAKE! If you are hot for an “afternoon delight”, I want you
to know I can handle it.

I can’t BELIEVE this is happening! You just pinched your nipple
and pulled on it! You let it go slowly, leaving the nipple even
more prominent than before. I am dying to suck on it. My cock
is hard as a steel bar, and I am very uncomfortable. It grew in
an awkward way, and I’m trying to be discrete about moving it to
a more comfortable position inside my pants. I’m moaning quietly
to myself, and almost drooling! Your eyes never leave the road.
Or me? I can’t tell for sure because of your sunglasses. (I ask
myself in dismay, “What are you DOING to me? What is on your
MIND, woman?”)